


Battered

by whirrandchime



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Canon-Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Coma, Concussions, Cooking, Hallucinations, Helpless Hannibal, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Insanity, M/M, Mind Palace, Murder, Poison, Post-Fall, Recovery, Wrath of the Lamb, s03e13
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-18
Updated: 2018-01-19
Packaged: 2018-09-25 07:43:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9809828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whirrandchime/pseuds/whirrandchime
Summary: After the cliff dive, Will has a change of heart that leads to him being gravely injured—leaving Hannibal alone to struggle with the emotional weight of their actions.





	1. Chapter 1

     The last thing Will did before hitting the water was change his mind—living was a way out too. He knew Hannibal would be happy to give up, drown in his arms. Will had given enough of himself that Hannibal could die content, and as such he didn't seem to be preparing for impact. So while Hannibal inhaled gently what he thought would be his last breath, heady with blood and the scent of their becoming, Will sucked in air to hold, bracing himself and turning to take the brunt of the impact. The whip of air and crash of waves in his ears became a bubbling silence after the crash, and Will flailed to right himself, trying and failing to rise above the waves and almost losing his hold on Hannibal in the process. The warmth that had been glued between their bodies by blood dissipated into the ice cold Atlantic, current pulling them into a strong wave. Hannibal was only just realizing this wasn't supposed to be the end anymore, gripping Will with intent as they kicked at the water and pulled each other towards the surface. A wave caught them just as Will gasped for the surface, catching a glimpse of Hannibal's face before blacking out as his skull was dashed against the rocks.

xxx 

     Hannibal's heart leapt when he realized Will was trying to save them. When they reached the surface, he wanted to say something, words caught in his throat, but upon actually tasting air they were immediately thrust against an outcropping in the cliff. Hannibal ducked in time and only glanced his shoulder, but he had heard the crack Will's head had made. He could only hope Will was conscious enough to pull in air before they went under again, Hannibal swimming towards the shore. Will's fading grip was not promising, and Hannibal had to drag his limp body onto the coarse sand. Red began seeping into the ground under Will's head, dripping in dilute rivulets from his cheek and some new injury at the back of his head. Hannibal just stared for a second, kneeling over Will and catching his breath, not registering the awful stillness of the body in front of him. Between panting breaths, he fumbled with Will's wrist, feeling nothing (perhaps just for the shaking of his fingers. Hypothermia is setting in, dear Will must be cold). He falls to his hands and knees, reaching for Will's neck, cupping his face and pressing his fingers to the blood vessels under his jaw. He feels a faint pulse and sighs, resting his forehead on Will's chest as his hands slip from neck to shoulders.  
     Suddenly Will's chest jerks with a weak, choking cough. "You smell like flowers," he croaks, going still again, and Hannibal hovers to try to check his vitals in the blue-black night.  
     Boots crunch on the gravelly sand as someone approaches—Hannibal still has his hands on Will's face when he looks up, not expecting anyone out at his remote cliffside.  
     "You could watch him die and be rid of it all, Hannibal." Chiyoh has her rifle slung over her shoulder—clearly she had been watching them earlier from afar, and had decided to let nature take its course. "He doesn't look to be breathing."  
Hannibal whips his head back to Will, seeing she is right, and immediately plugs his nose to start CPR. On his first breath blood bubbles from the gash on Will's cheek; he covers it and continues until Will chokes a breath on his own but does not wake, blood dribbling from the corner of his mouth. "Help me with him, please," Hannibal looks at Chiyoh with wide eyes, breathing heavily.  
     She stares at him for a moment before slinging her rifle on her back and picking Will up under his arms. Hannibal tries to help, but Chiyoh nudges him away. "The open wound you seem to have forgotten will not thank you if you do this; if you simply follow both of you may live long enough to thank me."  
     Hannibal drags himself to his feet and follows Chiyoh, clutching at his side. She stops a moment and pulls something from her back pocket, tossing it to Hannibal before lifting Will again. Hannibal nearly drops the item, a cell phone, worried for the way Will's head slumps and the blood that drops steadily from his mouth.  
     "Call the veterinarian for your pet," she mumbles, dragging Will down the shore towards the nearest neighbor.

xxx 

     Hannibal holds the door open as Chiyoh pulls Will into the bedroom of the tiny house. He helps her lift him onto the only bed, grimacing at the pull on his bullet wound.  
     "Take care of yourself, you will not wake to see him tomorrow if your adrenaline fails before you treat the bullet wound." Anticipating his protest, she adds, "You trained me well enough to make him comfortable, the doctor will be here in twenty minutes if his estimate was correct."  
Hannibal retreats to the bathroom, removes his shirt, and rummages for first aid supplies.  
     After he rinses the wound and straps it with gauze, he drinks a glass of water in an attempt to begin to remedy the blood loss. He feels his eyelids drooping when he gets to the kitchen, quickly consuming a few stale crackers to give his body something to work with before lying on the couch with his feet up on the arm.  
     He is startled awake, much to his surprise, when a hand rests on his chest. Hannibal flinches, trying to lift himself before recognizing Dr. Frick, a balding gentleman with a short black beard and small spectacles. The man used to be a coworker of Hannibal's before he had found him quite literally red-handed over a dead patient. Hannibal had recommended he resign, whereupon he changed professions. He now works as a veterinarian, primarily euthanizing animals.  
     "Just checking your wounds, you have quite a few broken ribs. Not a bad job on your side, though, obviously disgrace has not dulled your medical mind."  
     Hannibal glances down at his bare chest, covered in bruises, the worst of which are concentrated at his side.  
     "Clearly. The man in the bedroom, you were meant to —"  
     "He is resting. I swear, I've seen him at my clinic with at least a dozen different animals the past few years. Quite the coincidence, don't you think?"  
     "Hardly." Hannibal rests his head back down, "I recommended you for his pack. Though I am surprised if he kept visiting after our last unfortunate encounter."  
     "Loyalty works in mysterious ways, especially when broken... he is in a coma at the moment, and in your state I don't recommend moving to visit him."  
     Hannibal turns his head, staring at the open door to the bedroom. From this angle he can barely see the corner of the bed, and not any part with Will on it. He sighs. "How long?"  
     "It's been a few hours so far, I wouldn't expect him to wake for a few days. Quite the nasty gash on his head, and he has even more broken ribs than you. A concussion, at least, but he could very well be brain dead."  
     "He spoke earlier, delirious but coherent," Hannibal adds.  
     "Then perhaps not brain dead, but that man will be deep inside his head for a few days at the least."  
     "Will. His name is Will."  
     "Well, let's hope he's got a survival instinct to match the name."  
     "That I can't vouch for, he did tip us off a cliff."  
     "Well," the balding doctor stands, "then you'll need all the luck you can get. He's stable for now, but I must head off. Don't call me again, Lecter. We're even now."  
     "I clean up your corpse all those years ago and you revive his today, it does seem a fair trade."  
     "Yeah, well, scrub it from your memory. Or lock it in one of your little mind rooms, just lose my card." He leaves the house, shutting in a still silence on his way out the front door.  
     Hannibal considers trying to rest again only briefly before struggling to sit up, eyes fuzzing black a moment as he staggers to stand. He leans on side tables, a floor lamp, and the wall as he makes his way to the bedroom door, where he pauses as he looks over Will. An IV bag is taped to the headboard, and his head, face, and shoulder are bandaged, the sheets pulled up over his chest. The bed is queen sized, and they'd placed Will to one side, leaving a space large enough for Hannibal to lie beside him. A glass of water and some meal bars were placed on the bedside table by the empty space, likely Chiyoh's foresight. Hannibal lies down above the covers and falls asleep looking at the man beside him and monitoring the subtle movements of his breath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, my first-ever fan fiction! I just can't get enough of this ship, I've drowned with it many times... no beta or editor, just me in my pajamas so hopefully I haven't made any grievous errors. Hopefully I'll write the next step of this story soon!


	2. Chapter 2

     When Hannibal wakes he feels weighted down, limbs weak and head aching. He turns to look at Will, abdominal muscles protesting even slight movements.  
     Chiyoh is re-bandaging Will just a foot away, finishing taping a new patch over his cheek. She moves to Hannibal's side of the bed, helping him sit up and handing him a glass of water to drink while she rewraps his waist. "I'm leaving today. Dr. Frick left written instructions about _him_ , and said to keep up with changing your bandages. Since you walked here last night, I suppose you're able to move around well enough, so you'll find groceries and supplies in the kitchen. I suggest you consider moving within the month."  
     "Thank you for your assistance, Chiyoh. I suppose we were fortunate to be under your supervision last night."  
     "I hadn’t decided if my presence was to benefit you, but your fall was quite spectacular. Don't think you'll find me watching over you any longer, though. I've spent far too long guarding your charges; Will should be yours to manage."  
     Hannibal keeps silent. Chiyoh had always been exceedingly useful, and keeping his pet project around was intriguing—seeing what had become of her since he had tasked her with guard duty reminded him of his immense influence. He was surprised she had maintained her surveillance after Muskrat Farm and his imprisonment; surely she could have made a new life for herself in those three years. Perhaps she had made Will her new prisoner without his knowledge. That would be the best way Hannibal could imagine that she would be able to find them at the cliff. He decides he should ask if she had seen Will with his new family.  
     But by late morning, Chiyoh had gone. No heartfelt goodbyes, no well-wishes. She had merely placed Dr. Frick's instructions beside Hannibal and exited silently, leaving him propped up in bed next to his comatose Will. Hannibal's gaze keeps drifting over to the man beside him, watching the gentle movements of his bandaged chest. Hannibal sighs, a motion that makes his body ache anew.  
     He struggles to stand, every contraction of his muscles jarring and painful. He manages to get to sitting on the edge of the bed, hand pressed tight over his bandaged wound. The physical pain was not new—after all, he’d been stabbed, beaten, cut, hanged, and branded before, and a gunshot was not much different than a combination of those, but after three years of confinement his body didn’t have as much resilience as it used to. Standing, his vision goes black again and he sways, catching himself on the wall before hobbling to check the state of the house.

xxx

     After standing and walking for a while, Hannibal finds he can move without much pain as long as he avoids certain motions and keeps to a slow pace. Completing a thorough round of the rooms available to him, Hannibal busies himself in the kitchen, putting away groceries and examining the amenities his unwitting hosts had provided. Chiyoh had provided an admirable selection of ingredients, but the homeowners didn't have much more than basic cooking supplies. She had also neglected to supply anything to pass the time—he would have to go out soon to get sketching materials at least, and perhaps some books. This house has no television, and doesn't seem to have many books to entertain him. The only ones he'd managed to find were campy mystery novels, comfort food cookbooks, and how-to books on camping and outdoor living. Things Will might like more than Hannibal himself.  
     He had found children's toys in the hall closet, fishing poles and deflated inner tubes next to the mop and broom, but the whole house had a lingering scent of disuse. This home is most probably only used seasonally. It was unlikely anyone would return before the winter ended, and by then they'd be gone. After his quick examination, Hannibal had resigned himself to reorganizing the kitchen and settling into a tense boredom.  
     The toys had saddened him. He thinks of Abigail, though she was too old for toys, and remembers of her passport still somewhere in a suitcase along with Will's and his own. By now it was left to be seized by the police in his glass house on the hill, and she would be gone. He closes a cabinet a bit harder than necessary, pinching the bridge of his nose to compose himself. He walks back to the doorway of the bedroom, looking at Will again. He is extremely still, unlike how Will normally slept. Hannibal knows that even after the encephalitis had been managed, Will slept fitfully; this stillness is closer to death than anything Hannibal had ever seen of the man. An uneasiness tightens his chest—what if Will hadn’t meant to survive? Though evidence points to the contrary, Will’s actions are often more calculated than they appear. Perhaps he had meant Hannibal to watch him die—surely he knew that would be more punishment than the two dying together. That would have been a reward, an admission.  
     Leaning on the doorframe begins to aggravate his shoulder, which must have been bruised on the rocks the night before. Hannibal hesitates between the rooms, wanting to stay and watch over Will for a few moments longer, but knowing his body needs food to recover. He considers the protein bars Chiyoh had left on the bedside table, but decided to use some of her fresh ingredients before they could spoil—he doesn’t know how long he will have to stay here, too injured to leave for groceries or hunt.  
     Back in the kitchen, he sets about preparing a protein scramble. Seeing Will in bed reminds him of the morning he had visited the motel, Will only partially dressed and disheveled, though notably lacking the bandages he was covered by now. His hands are unsteady with the whisk, partly because of his injuries, but partly from the heartache and worry that is beginning to take a strong hold of him. His future was just too uncertain—dying with Will would have been more than he hoped for, but this path he had been set on was not what he had in mind for their survival. Hannibal is annoyed with himself; he was generally so patient. He had kept Miriam alive for years just to taunt Jack Crawford, surely he could manage on his own here until Will woke. If Will woke. He has to set the whisk down and take a breath, grounding himself in the stretching ache of his bullet wound. Images of Will covered in blood play through his mind. His injuries are cracking his composure, that must be it. The wound on his side was seeping through the bandage, and the pain medication Dr. Frick had left was making him dizzy. He presses his wound again, taking a deep breath to steady himself. He still has to eat, after all.  
     Finishing the protein scramble, he realizes that Chiyoh's ingredients would only serve one person for two weeks—perhaps she did not believe Will would wake in that time. If he did, Hannibal justifies, they should leave all the sooner, and the dwindling provisions would be another impetus for their flight.

xxx

     Somehow that first day took longer to pass than even the worst day he experienced in prison. At least there he had his books, and without those his imagination—he could revisit Will and their conversations any time he pleased.  
     With Will right in front of him it was harder to let himself disappear into his mind, so he kept a vigilant watch. The man in front of him was infinitely more real than his memories. Here Will was just within reach, so Hannibal watched for any change without luck. He would be heartened by even the slightest twitch of a finger, but Will stayed depressingly still. Hannibal tried to read the camping manuals, distracted from his watch by a section on fishing lures with pictures of fly fishermen for what turned out to only be five minutes. He couldn’t concentrate on anything, and often found himself counting Will’s breaths by the steady motions of his chest. Time passed very slowly.  
     That first night alone, Hannibal cooked himself a relatively simple meal of wine marinated pork and a rice dish he had heard of in Turkey. After cleaning up he studied the decor of the house, touring the rooms multiple times, the bedroom excessively. In that room was hung a large watercolor of windmills on a hill, one larger than the rest. He walked out of the room and into another—the kitchen, the living room, the kitchen again—and back to the bedroom, pointedly trying not to stare at Will the entire day.  
     He considered talking to Will, but decided against it. If he couldn't hear him, he wouldn't want to repeat himself later on, and if he could hear him he didn't want Will unable to answer. He had too many questions, too many things he wanted to hear Will say. He could wait, he had to.

xxx

     Though Will was locked away in unconsciousness, Hannibal couldn't seem to fall asleep. It was four AM, if the clock on the bedside table was correct, and Hannibal still couldn't fall asleep. His body aches, and every time he breathes he can feel his bandages. Restless, he curls onto his side to look at Will, reaching out his hand before drawing back. On the cliff they had been dying, their touch there was a goodbye. Now, they were like ghosts, and Hannibal shies away from touch as if he might not find Will there when he reached out.  
     The next day is much of the same. Hannibal cooks, walks in circles, looks at the paintings, looks at Will, picks up the same books and finds himself staring at the photographs of fly fishermen, particularly one whose back was turned to the camera when the photo was taken. He tends to Will's bandages, sedation, and the tube system Dr. Frick had set up, taking his own medication as well. But, when night comes again, Hannibal finds that once again he stays awake; no matter how fatigued his body feels he is unable to slip into unconsciousness.  
     At four AM again he lies silently, tired and sore from his injuries, and as he tries to be still and lose himself to sleep, he feels his body rocking, as if he'd spent the day on a boat at sea during a storm. When he closes his eyes he sees the welcoming dark waters of the Atlantic, and feels the cooling, sticky blood on his skin. He tries to delve into his memory, and sees Will staggering to stand in front of him, covered in the blood of the dragon. When Will looks him dead in the eye and tells him "it's beautiful," Hannibal is shaken awake with the feeling he'd almost fallen off a precipice. The clock reads 4:15.  
     When the sun comes up, Hannibal drags himself out of bed and goes about his new routine again. He tries to find sketching pencils in the house, only managing a plastic tub of broken crayons and dried felt pens. It hardly matters, because unless he is going to tear up their books he cannot find any paper, either.  
     While cooking lunch, Hannibal found himself losing focus again. He was chopping vegetables for soup, and chopped all of the carrots in the bag before realizing he'd only meant to cut two. While trying to think of recipes that wouldn't waste the carrots, he hears something from the bedroom.  
     Turning towards the door, Hannibal nearly jumps out of his skin when he sees Will, bandages soaked red and dripping, standing in the doorway. Hannibal is frozen still for a moment, heart racing. In this moment of hesitation, Will's legs fail, falling back into the darkened room, and Hannibal rushes to help him. Once he stoops in the doorway, though, he realizes Will isn't there on the floor—he is still lying in bed, unchanged from earlier. His bandages are clean, and he had definitely not moved. Hannibal stays there on the floor, sitting against the wall to catch his breath from the adrenaline rush he'd just experienced. Is this how things would be? Was he to go insane waiting for Will to wake up, bored and unable to sleep? Hallucinations are new in Hannibal's experience. Remembering how Will had experienced them, he briefly wonders if he is even awake now. Perhaps he had drifted off in the early morning after all. But no, Hannibal highly doubted his wounds would ache this way if he were dreaming. And he could remember exactly what he'd done leading up to these moments; no time had been lost.   
     He looks at Will again, so still and silent, and waits for his heart rate to return to normal. Then, he decides there was nothing he can do but continue on with the day. So he gets up to finish making his soup.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Getting ready for some major craziness here! I've never seen anyone make Hannibal go insane before, so I thought I'd contribute a bit of sad, hallucinating, insomniac Hannibal to the world. I'm open to suggestions if anyone has a request!


	3. Chapter 3

     Hannibal manages to sleep for a few hours the next night. Not many, maybe three hours altogether before he wakes to the sound of heavy rain. He turns to look at Will.  
     His face is covered in blood, his eyes glazed over. Hannibal startles, blinking sleep out of his eyes and knowing that was not possible, he'd taken exquisite care with his charge before lying down to sleep. He closes his eyes and looks back again, and Will is indeed back to normal. With a heavy sigh Hannibal looks out the window; it is still pitch dark outside. He tries to lay back and return to sleep, but his wound makes him restless. He throws the covers off his legs and walks out into the living room.  
     It's far too early to make breakfast; the microwave clock reads 4:45. So Hannibal walks out into the rain, the flannel pants he borrowed from a drawer getting quickly soaked. He turns his face up to the sky, welcoming the cooling drops. His mind is brought back to that other rainy night, when Will hadn't chosen to run away with him. He folds his arms around himself, remembering the hot feeling of Will's blood and viscera exposed to him. The linoleum knife had been short enough that his fingers had dragged over the edge of the wound as he made it, and the heat of it had been fantastic. He'd struggled with wanting to rip Will open then and there, covering himself in that wet heat. When he'd pulled Will towards him, his wound pressed against Hannibal's stomach, oozing blood down his abdomen to his groin. At that moment he valued his own life too highly to do anything but make Will suffer, though something inside him had pressed past the betrayal and reminded him Will must live. But as he drove to retrieve Bedelia for their flight, he ran his fingers over his lips, over and over, licking at the blood that hadn't washed away in the rain.  
     Now, he can see the blood again, dripping down his wrist as he holds his hand up to the glow of the moon as it hides behind a raincloud.  
     "It really does look black in the moonlight," Will's voice whispers in his mind. No matter how he tries to savor the words and the moment in them, his imagination always rushes through to their plunge.  
     Deep in the distance, off to the side of the house, Hannibal thinks he sees something move through the trees. For a moment he considers investigating, but decides that if it's an animal it won't care to come for the house, if it's human it won't be a threat until it comes closer, and if it's a hallucination he could end up chasing figments through the woods until he collapsed of exhaustion.  
     He turns away from the forest to look up at the sky again before dragging himself inside, dripping wet. The cold rain reminds him he hasn’t washed off the blood and ocean grime from days ago, and makes him crave a warm shower. The house doesn't have the best selection of shampoo, but the toiletries suffice to clean off the lingering scent of death and salt that had hung around him for days. He hadn't noticed it fully until it was gone, swirling down the drain mixed with drugstore body wash. He could only hope the lingering smells were affecting his mental state, and that he would be unburdened now he had a fresher palette.  
     Stepping out of the shower and wiping the steam off the mirror, Hannibal notices something else he had neglected the past few days—he had grown a short beard, and it was disappointingly quite grey. For a split second the rough face staring back reminds him of Will, and even though he had only stepped away briefly he finds himself wanting to return to his side. He imagines if it weren't for the need to eat and exercise his wound, he would stay by Will's side all day, just waiting for something to change.  
     Leaving the stubble for a possible disguise later, Hannibal finds himself lingering in the kitchen. The figments he has been seeing have him unsettled—his mind was unhinged and anxious enough to see things that weren't there, but he wasn't going to let himself believe there was nothing that could actually harm him. He grabs a small paring knife from a drawer, taking solace in the fact that despite the house's overwhelmingly poor culinary supplies, the knives are still high quality and sharp. Not that the quality particularly matters for self defense.  
     Hannibal returns to the bedroom, where Will was still lying peacefully. Redressing in a t-shirt and a different pair of flannel trousers, he places the knife on the bedside table and finds, yet again, that sleep evades him, and so once again he lies there, staring at Will's bandaged face. Fog glows outside the window behind Will, forming a soft halo around his shadowed profile.  
     And then another shadowed face appears at the window, too dark to be recognized. As soon as Hannibal tries to look at it, it ducks away. Hannibal crawls out of bed again, stalking quickly and quietly to the back door and doing a loop around the outside of the house. He finds nothing, no one, and the rain is disturbing the ground too much to see if any eavesdropper left tracks. Thinking of his hallucinatory visions the past few days, Hannibal sours at the distinct possibility that he is quite simply going insane. He does one more circle around the house just to be sure, and stops short off the side of the porch.  
     Will, skin wet and red like he had just bathed in blood, sits on the porch swing and stares out at the rain. He wears only boxers and a t-shirt, the clothes he normally sleeps in, and they are drenched with dark blood as well.  
     Hannibal sighs. "You can't possibly be real," he mumbles, stepping up onto the porch and past the figment, reaching for the door handle.  
     "Hannibal."  
     Hearing Will's voice, even imagined as this must be, is like music. These visions had not previously spoken to him, and he is curious. "Will."  
     Without turning towards him, the figment responds, "Come sit with me."  
     Torn between this new, enticing opportunity and his desire to continue his watch over the real Will, Hannibal hesitates, looking over the bloody figure.  
     "I won't bite," it said, in a calm and joking tone Hannibal hadn't heard for years. There is no spite in his words. Hannibal sits down on the porch swing next to Will, less than a foot of space between them.  
     "I am surprised to see you here," Hannibal speaks, studying Will's face. His eyes are still glued to the sky, sadness tinging his expression.  
     "We always find ourselves in unusual places, don't we?" He smiles, and Hannibal notices his face is unmarked, no gash from the Dragon's knife, and no scar from his own bone saw. "This is how it could have been years ago, just us, somewhere secluded, not on the run." A hand comes to rest on Will's shoulder, and Hannibal looks up to see Abigail standing behind the swing. Her skin is also bloodied, and there are no scars at her neck. She doesn't speak, just stands smiling at Hannibal. Will doesn’t seem worried at the touch. "I came to you. I did have a gun in my hands but I still came to you. Your reaction was... not ideal."  
     "I often regret my actions on that night. I was quite emotional."  
     “We were all emotional.” Will finally turned from the rain to look Hannibal in the eye. “Hannibal, you killed me that night. Your plan factored in my rebirth, but you killed me all the same. I'm not sure you know what you made. Those scars—any trust you had enjoyed before was cut out by your hands."  
     The blood on his face makes his eyes look all the more blue, all the more innocent.  
     "I know." Hannibal's voice is barely a whisper.  
     "It won't be the same as if it had never happened," Will says, and Hannibal notices Abigail has disappeared. When he looks back at Will he seems older, and his face is scarred as it is in life. "But it could be just us again."  
     Hannibal reaches out to touch Will's face—he wants so badly for it to be just them, for this Will to be real.  
     But the figment pulls back, expression shifting to the disgusted anger Will had too often shown in Hannibal’s presence. “Don’t touch me.” The blood begins to wash off his skin, getting replaced by water. He looks as he had after the ocean: pale, soaking wet, blood streaming from the wound on his face. "You know what always happens." He falls backwards, slumping in a death-like sleep.  
     And then he hears a small noise from inside the house. He leaves the figment on the porch to dissipate, twisting the doorknob quietly and sneaking back inside.  
     He grabs an umbrella that was resting by the door, gripping it like a sword, and creeps into the house. There's a rustling coming from the back room. A huge bang shakes the air, and Hannibal's eyes snap open. He is still lying in bed, hair wet and cold against his forehead. The clock shows the time as barely 5:30 AM, and Hannibal relaxes a moment before he hears the noise again.  
     He grabs the paring knife from the bedside table and creeps out of the bedroom, keeping low. He checks the back door, looking outside, and sees nothing. He checks all the doors and windows as he makes his way to the front of the house. All of them are closed, and he finds nothing out of place—until he reaches the kitchen. He can hear someone breathing behind the island counter, and sees the corner of a cutting board on the floor around the other side. Hannibal straightens, controlling his breath and posture to seem as though his wound wasn’t paining him. He can feel the shadow growing inside him: an intruder was most unwelcome. Hannibal had not been able to tell if the face he had seen at the window was a hallucination or not, but this was not something his mind would imagine.  
     He walks around the island slowly and purposefully, not trying to hide the noise of his footsteps. “Breaking and entering is very rude,” he growls. The man lunges at him, knife in hand—he is pale, sweaty, and shaking. Hannibal catches his wrist and smirks at he bread knife the other man holds—it's serrated with a blunt tip, and will be practically useless though much larger than Hannibal's paring knife. Then the man slashes with his other hand, slicing Hannibal's forearm with a much deadlier chef's knife.  
     Hannibal ducks the man's next swing, twisting the bread knife out of his hand before knocking his legs out from under him. The man struggles on the floor, rolling away and holding the knife in front of him as a guard. Hannibal lunges on top of him with his paring knife, easily hitting the chef's knife out of the man's sweaty, trembling hands. He stabs him in the heart, and again, and again, and slits his throat, until finally he stops thrashing.  
     Sloppy, Hannibal thinks to himself. His wound was making him lose his edge. Three years in prison likely didn't help his skills, either. He puts down his knife and looks at the man again. His face is extraordinarily pale, and covered in an unusual amount of perspiration. As his blood oozes out onto the floor, Hannibal catches a disgusting whiff—something is definitely wrong in this meat. Maybe rabies, though that's uncommon. Poison was a more likely cause, though why would he be running about in the night? He searches the man's pockets for a wallet; he wears street clothes despite the late hour. He finds a horrible green mesh-covered thing, with cards inside. Nothing particularly dangerous and no police identification, but the home address on his identification card was close by, perhaps the neighbors a few miles down the shore.  
     Hannibal sighs and sits back, leaning against the island counter. His hand is resting in the man's blood, and he takes another breath to assess its peculiar scent. He can't pin down the poison, but the smell coming off the corpse is like bile and copper. Staring at his dead, sweaty corpse, Hannibal is reminded of Franklyn. They have a similar fat, bearded face, though this man is notably more muscular. He takes another look at the ID: Joseph Murray Padgett. No one of consequence.  
     He had likely recognized Hannibal through the window, if that wasn't a hallucination after all. They would have to move much sooner, now. If this man had a job or were otherwise missed the police would search the area, and they would be found. They needed a car. Hannibal slumps deeper against the cabinet, arms resting on his knees as the blood drips off his fingertips. A few drops fall from his arm as well, and he examines the slash the other man had given him. He tries to avoid getting the man's tainted blood in his own wound, wrapping it in a towel he pulls from the counter. He presses his arm against his knee again, closing his eyes to try and straighten his thoughts. “I close my eyes and wade into the quiet of the stream,” he hears Will say. Taking a breath, he does just that; he sees Will in the distance, too far to call to, casting a line in the river. His back is towards Hannibal, who stands on the shore in the shadow of the trees. Hannibal doesn’t think to take off his shoes or roll up his trouser legs, he just steps into the shallows, feeling the cool water lap up around his ankles and seep into his socks. The sunlight sparkles in the water ahead of him, and he takes another step, hands in his pockets as he lets the water ruin his shoes. He stands there for a while, watching Will from behind and far away, until he takes another breath tainted by the cloying smell of poisoned blood all around him and is pulled back to where he leans against the kitchen’s island counter. He can’t leave this mess much longer and still hope to be able to live here through the stench.  
     He needs to find a car, but he didn't know if he'd be able to find an unsuspecting traveler on the road this late at night. It was best to see if this man, Padgett, had anyone waiting for him at home. Dropping the bloodstained towel from around his arm, Hannibal goes outside into the rain again in bloodied clothes, deciding to trudge through to the other side of the small wood as that was where he first saw Padgett and where a neighbor was most likely to live. Every few hundred feet he would stop and lean against a tree to catch his breath. His side was still tight from the wound—he was at a stage where exercise like this could either worsen or improve his condition, though he didn't feel as though this effort was doing him good. By the time he could see the light of a house through the trees more than a mile away from his own hideaway, Hannibal hopes he won't have to fight anyone else tonight. He surely can't best them without being even more seriously injured.  
     As he approaches, he sees a single room lit, with thin curtains drawn that block any view he could have used to assess a threat. He hears nothing, and judging by the state of the building the walls would be low enough quality that he would have been able to hear if a television or radio were on. It was possible Padgett simply left the light on after consuming poison and wandering through the forest, though extremely unlikely. It was more probable someone else had poisoned him, and that person would be dangerous. Though if he were lucky they might not be physically powerful, given that poison was their weapon of choice. Hannibal straightens himself as best he can while dressed in his bloodied, rain-wet pajamas, and approaches the back door. It is unlocked, and more than slightly ajar. Likely where Mr. Padgett had exited. It bodes well that no one had bothered to close it; maybe there would be no one inside.  
     He walks carefully through what appears to be a kitchen—he doesn't turn on the light, merely guesses by the strong smell of cleaning products. He can tell this house is run by a fastidious homemaker.  
     Light comes from under the door, and Hannibal decides to enter head on. Opening the door as if he were greeting a friend on his front stoop, Hannibal's posture is comfortable and calm despite his hope to avoid more physical strain. It is a small sitting room, evening coffee laid out on the table in front of the sofa where a woman was reclining. She looks up from her book, surprised and confused but not afraid. Hannibal notices a yellowed spot on the corner of her eye, like a healing bruise. "Who are you?" She asks.  
     Hannibal pulls the green mesh wallet from a soggy pocket and tosses it gently onto the table in front of her.  
     "I do believe I just killed your husband, Mrs. Padgett."  
     "No you didn't," she replies, taking a sip of her coffee and turning back to her book. "I did."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love the idea of Hannibal losing it. As composed and pristine as he shows himself to be, there have to be some strange, strange cogs turning in that pretty head to make him do what he does. So we have this: bloody visions and ambiguous states of consciousness. And the mind palace is accessible again, but only through Will's visions... "You and I have begun to blur." Taking on Will's insomnia, hallucinations, and now his safety net? We'll see where this goes. And trust me, there ARE less crazy times to come when Will wakes up. Just... not for a while. I want to break him first.


	4. Chapter 4

     “Have some coffee, and sit down.” She doesn’t make eye contact. She stares blandly forward and blows a bit of steam away from her mug. Her face is soft and round, and she has a plump, smoothed look about her—like a river rock that has braved harsh currents. Her hair is pulled back into a ponytail, and it's going white at the temples.  
     "Pardon me, but I am not in the habit of accepting drinks from poisoners."  
     She sets down her mug. “I won’t poison just anyone. Trust me, Joe had the aconite coming.”  
     Hannibal stays standing, resting his hands on the back of the chair she offered, and does not drink. “I was curious what you used. Aconite is known as the queen of all poisons. The wolfsbane plant from which it is derived means “chivalry” in the language of flowers." The woman looks Hannibal in the eye, a deadness showing through her gaze. "It would seem that chivalry was something your Joseph was missing. Only fitting for you to gift him with it."  
     “Been sitting on that little vial for almost a year. I had all the knives in the kitchen, or rat poison, or bleach, or really anything you might think of, but none of it felt right. He came home tonight and I just knew. And then just after he waddled off into the woods to die, you come by instead. Now if you don’t mind, you never answered me when I asked who you are.”  
     “I had rather hoped I wouldn’t have to.”  
     “Hmm." She studies him, and after a moment her eyebrows pull together as if trying to remember. "You do look familiar, I hope we haven't met before. I'm the worst with names."  
     "I can't imagine we've met, though I confess I was likely on television quite recently. I am Dr. Hannibal Lecter." A small quirk of realization flashes in her eyes, but fear has no part in it. "Oh, you're that... Well, I can imagine you might not be in the best state at the moment. Pardon the question, but weren’t you supposed to be in prison?”  
     “I was released into the care of a former colleague to consult on a case."  
     "And how did it go?"  
     "Quite well, in my opinion."  
     “I'm glad. Are you sure you won’t have some coffee?”  
     “I’m afraid it would not be wise with the delicacy of my injuries.” Hannibal sits down, hand over the bullet wound.  
     “Well, let me make you some tea, something light like chamomile. And I’ll find something for your arm, too.” She stands, tightening the waist of her robe, and goes to the kitchen.  
     “I’m quite surprised you aren’t more alarmed than you are." Hannibal speaks slightly louder so she can hear him from the kitchen.  
     "Considering you came all this way in just your pajamas, you didn't seem much of a threat. And the blood all over you would stop you from calling any police, even without how badly the police must want to find you anyway." She comes back with a steaming mug on a small tray, a little pitcher of milk next to some honey, a lemon slice, and a small spoon on a plate. "Might want to let that steep for a bit." She puts the tray in front of Hannibal and goes back to the kitchen, returning quickly with a small, red zippered pouch. She pulls out some gauze and tape and bends over Hannibal, beckoning for his arm. He obliges, and she starts wiping the cut with a wet rag.  
     "I am most grateful for your hospitality, however, I arrived here with a purpose. Do you or your husband have a car? I am in need of a way to leave the area."  
     "Joe has a truck you could take, it's sitting out back. Might be best if it looked like he up and left anyway."  
     Hannibal can feel himself relaxing as she cleans the wound. She was very calm about her recent murder, and Hannibal felt at ease around her, like she could be trusted. It was unlikely she would report him to the authorities and risk being discovered herself. “I can remove his body when I leave, if you wish. Few would guess he had stumbled through the trees in the first place.” He closes his eyes; the adrenaline from the kill has completely gone out of his system, leaving him dead tired.  
     She starts taping some gauze over the wound—it's not deep enough to need stitches. “I guess that would be most convenient.”  
     Hannibal takes a deep breath as she covers the wound. He steps into the calm of his mind, finding a set of prominent oak doors in the foyer that hadn't been there previously. Now they were the only set of doors he could even stand to look at. When he steps through them, he stands in the center of the stream, watching Will from afar. Will casts his line, dragging the lure through the water, through the air, and back again, oblivious to Hannibal standing far behind him. Hannibal looks down at the water burbling around his shins, content to stand here once more. He looks around at the trees, golden in the sunlight, before settling his gaze once again on Will. It's an idyllic landscape, and he can tell Will is utterly at peace. He doesn’t want to distract him, he looks so in sync with the stream.  
     "I'm all finished," the woman says, patting his arm gently. "You really don't look too good, though. Maybe you should see a doctor."  
     Hannibal breathes out heavily as he opens his eyes. "I have already. Besides, I have medical training myself."  
     "But you didn't even bother to wrap up your own arm before trekking through the trees? Really."  
     "I have been...out of sorts." He catches sight of a wall clock that reads nearly seven AM. "Thank you for your hospitality, but I really must be going now. I have a friend waiting for me."  
     "You could stay and rest a bit longer, it's still dark out. Bedsides, would he even be awake this early?”  
     "I would be surprised." Hannibal rubs his eyes, debating how much to tell her after receiving her puzzled look. "He's been unconscious for a few days now."  
     "Well... that's... hm."  
     "It would be very helpful if you could assist me in moving him." Hannibal stands, hand on his bullet wound as he tries to hold himself together.  
     "Yeah. Yeah, sure. And probably with Joe, too, right?"  
     "That would be ideal, but I confess I left him quite a mess. You may not wish to be involved."  
     "I'd appreciate not getting my hands dirty, yes."  
     "Shall we drive?"

xxx 

     It turns out that Joe's truck is a monstrous thing, black with grey-silver snakes twisting in a writhing mass painted on the hood. "Joe used it for off-roading with his friends," the woman said. But lucky for Hannibal, Joe preferred space and luxury with his vehicles, so the back seat was likely wide enough to fit Will lying down comfortably. As they drive with Hannibal behind the wheel, they sit in silence. It is only a few minutes until they reached the house, and Hannibal leads them through the back door so the woman won’t have to see her dead husband. Regardless of his care in this regard, the house smells like blood and death, and she is quite clearly uncomfortable as he leads her through to the bedroom.  
     “Oh,” she gasps when she sees Will, “I wasn’t sure… He looks…sweet."  
     “We need to move him to the car.”  
     “How? Do you—do you have a gurney?”  
     “We will have to improvise.” He reaches to roll up his sleeves, forgetting he was only wearing the homeowner’s thin t-shirt. He takes the mop and broom from the closet, unscrewing their heads from the poles, and works quickly to strap them with duct tape and a sturdy quilt stretched across as a makeshift stretcher. He arranges Will on it carefully, disconnecting as little as possible to try to get him to the car with all his medical equipment. Dr. Frick had not supplied the customary monitoring equipment, but there were several tubes that would have to be readjusted once Hannibal had brought them to a safe location.  
     Together they lift Will and carry him to the car. He was almost too heavy for them, as Hannibal was still weak, but they manage to get him into the backseat lying down with the medical equipment intact. Hannibal has to bend Will’s knees slightly so he would fit without being crushed by the door, but overall the process went remarkably quickly.  
     "I realize I never asked your name. Considering our new conspiracy I feel somewhat disadvantaged.”  
     "It's Molly."  
     Hannibal purses his lips and takes a short breath to hide his associations with the name. “I’m glad to have met you. Now, if you don’t mind I must return inside to clean. If you would stay with him, I would be very grateful.” He makes sure he still has the keys to the ignition in his pocket, just in case.  
     “Of course. Anything I should watch out for?”  
     “Just make sure he keeps breathing. If he moves or anything changes, call me immediately and loudly. You will not leave us alive if he dies in my absence.”  
     “Uh—Understood.”  
     Hannibal straightens himself and assesses her—she seems sincere, eyes wide from his threat. She still seemed unaffected by grief, remorse, and even fear for the most part. He turns and leaves her, going back to the kitchen. 

xxx 

     The body is pale, stinking still from residual sweat in addition to a few hours rot. Hannibal rolls “Joe” onto a tarp he’d found with the fishing gear, wrapping him up to take outside later. He cleans the blood pool with diluted bleach that makes him dizzy, and makes sure to wipe the knives they’d used. He tosses the towels he uses in with the corpse, and drags them all out to the car. He shoves the body in the bed of the truck, checking on Will through the back window. Molly is looking down at him, kneeling with her fingers pressed to his wrist. For a second Hannibal thinks she’s holding his hand, and a swell of rage builds in his chest. Molly looks up as he goes back inside. He tries to quash the hate he has suddenly developed towards Molly—it was just a name, after all. She is not Will’s wife. And yet, Hannibal can’t help but think of the ring still upon Will’s finger.  
     Upon reentering the kitchen, he sees Will leaning against the island, standing just where the corpse had been sitting for the past hours. The apparition turns its head towards him, and Hannibal can see his skin is bluish and his chest is marred by multiple stab wounds—he’d taken on the wounds of the deceased Joe Padgett. The thing follows Hannibal as he takes an overnight bag from the closet, stuffing it with clothes that seemed they might fit Will or Hannibal. He re-dresses in clean clothes again, Will watching from the doorway. On a whim, Hannibal also packs the camping manual with its section on fly fishing, and the fishing equipment from the closet. The Will-figment grins at him.  
     The remaining food goes into a large party cooler, and Hannibal brings everything out to the car. He does a final sweep with a rag to remove any fingerprints he might have left, the apparition of Will watching the whole time, and then goes back out to the truck. Molly steps out of the car and lets Hannibal take her place, where he checks to make sure everything is stable. The real Will’s state has not changed, and Hannibal thanks his luck that Will did not worsen when Hannibal went through the trees.  
     Molly was standing behind the truck, arms crossed as she looked at the tarp-wrapped form that was her late husband. Her stance is strong despite the fact she is wearing a robe and rainboots she had slipped on at the last minute. Hannibal moves to stand beside her.  
     “Bury him somewhere terrible for me. He deserves that.”  
     “Of course,” Hannibal replies. Molly shows herself to the passenger side door, and Hannibal goes to drive her home.

xxx 

     He drops her off at her front porch, thanking her for her help but making sure she would keep her silence with a promise similar to the one he gave Alana. If she contacted the authorities or otherwise alerted the public to his and Will's survival, Hannibal would find her and kill her.  
     As he drives he finds himself turning his head back to check on Will many times— he is lucky no one else is driving in this area, otherwise he might get into an accident. For a moment as the sun rises higher in the sky there is a glint of light in the back seat, and Hannibal's eyes jump to the ring on Will's finger, the hand resting on his abdomen. Despite all of the medical equipment that could have flashed in his eyes, the ring is what settles in Hannibal's mind as the culprit. He starts to think of Molly the poisoner.  
     He had been lonely, and tired. He shouldn't have told her his name outright. He should have killed her. He could still turn around, go back and slit her throat to eliminate a witness. She had sworn she would keep his secret, but Hannibal knows all too well that promises spoken and promises kept could be very different things indeed.  
     "And her name is Molly," Will says, sitting in the passenger seat. He is once again streaming water, leaking blood from many wounds. He twists the simple ring on his finger, and he wears a deep blue suit, one Hannibal might have picked for him.  
     "And her name is Molly," Hannibal sighs. Will doesn't respond anymore. They sit in silence as Hannibal drives on. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jealous, crazy, lonely Hannibal is back to the murdering! With a murderess friend, too... and off to more trouble!


	5. Chapter 5

     He drives for hours with only minimal stops because he wants to get Will somewhere secure as soon as possible. His attention to the road is distracted by the new cut on his arm, Will laying quietly in the backseat, and the apparition beside him that refuses to fade. He is already uncomfortable—his body had been awake for far too long, jittery and anxious as he drives down long and boring highways. The truck jostles him enough that his wounds can’t possibly be doing well. When he passes a police car stopped on the side of the road he is grateful for whoever else had been speeding, whoever else had crashed. The less focus is on him, the safer Hannibal feels.  
     He has tried to start a conversation with the figment beside him a few times now, part of him happy for the lack of response but part of him wishing to converse like they always used to. If the specter didn’t respond, it might have meant his sanity was intact enough to realize conversation was ludicrous, but he was beginning to worry that the silence somehow reflected on the real Will’s state, or worse, Hannibal’s fading memory of what it was like when Will spoke to him. After all, it had been a some time now since his mind palace had been a reliable escape from reality.  
     Regardless, Will sat there, dashing in his midnight blue suit with a pale silk pocket square. He leaned against the window, skin clean now, and Hannibal could almost imagine that he really was asleep there, that they were headed to the opera together. But he can’t help remembering the real Will in the backseat, head lolling with the motion of the car. Catching sight of the real Will his resolve steels; he takes a deep breath and concentrates on the road a little better before his eyes start to glaze again.  
     By the time he reaches the turn off for his other safe house, he feels himself drooping. The sight of the wood paneled house at the end of the long driveway is a comfort to him, though. This one isn’t as nicely provisioned as the cliffside house, but it is well hidden in the forest near the Pennsylvania/New York border.  
     Parked in the relative safety of his own garage, it soon becomes clear that moving Will out of the back seat by himself will be next to impossible. He takes the keys out of the ignition and allows himself a moment to rest, leaning the seat back. He can feel his consciousness fading—he hasn’t slept for days now. It feels good to just lie back, taking some pressure off the gunshot wound in his side... his eyelids are so heavy. He imagines Will is lying beside him in bed, falling asleep peacefully together. He wonders what it might be like to feel Will’s arms embracing him.  
     Hannibal shakes himself out of this line of thinking; he’d been staring back at Will in the car for a few minutes now, and he had to get him inside the house where it would be safer. Hannibal peels himself out of the driver’s seat.  
     He had a steel table he sometimes used for corpses, and it had wheels. With Will still on the makeshift stretcher it was marginally easier to move him to a bedroom (Hannibal's own, he later realizes. He tells himself he hadn't been thinking straight at the time). By the time Will is once again comfortably in bed, hooked up to machines and equipment that Hannibal had on hand, the gauze on Hannibal’s side is soaked with blood. But Will is stable—that is all Hannibal cares about now. He lies down next to Will—his bed is more than large enough for the both of them, he decides—and steadies himself. He turns to look at Will, as he often had at the oceanside cabin. Here the light is different, revealing the damage rather than hiding it in silhouette. He can see the bandage on his cheek is still clean, the cut had been mostly closed for a couple days. The stitches should be removed now that they are in a more permanent location.  
     But first Hannibal lets himself rest for a few minutes. Despite how his dreams have attacked him lately, he cannot help falling back into them. At this point, to hear Will speak to him, he welcomes them, and falls almost immediately into their depths.  
     "Hannibal."  
     Hannibal stirs, looking at Will as his eyes adjust to the dusky evening light. He lies weakly in bed where Hannibal had arranged him, cheek bandage lightly tinged with red.  
     "I've been trying to wake you up, to make you see..." Will coughs and struggles against the bedsheets in an effort to straighten himself. He pushes himself up and blood rapidly seeps over his abdomen, streaming from the huge gash across his midriff. The wounds in his shoulder, cheek, and forehead open too. Hannibal reaches to help him but Will pushes him away.  
     "Don't touch me. You chose this. You all did." Water drips from his hair as he looks into Hannibal's eyes, the same way he looked that night in his kitchen years ago. A mix of fear, pain, and acceptance. Or was that disgust and betrayal? He could hardly tell. That beautiful face, so tormented in that moment. Hannibal hadn't wanted to leave, and he decides not to now. He reaches towards Will again, trying to apply pressure to the gaping gut wound as Will presses his face into Hannibal's chest.  
     "I know why you wanted this. It's... beautiful... but... did you have to make it hurt?" His voice is weak and strained with tears. He chokes and holds back a sob as Hannibal tries to keep him in one piece, but the blood just keeps oozing, covering him in warm red. It’s then he feels the knife still in his hand, cutting deeper as he tries to hold the wound together. Will’s shaking and gasping slowly fade away, and the body slips away with the sound. “I’m not going to miss you.” Hannibal holds the linoleum knife, and the blood on his skin screams and pulses in his ears, beating against his heart. “I don’t want to think about you anymore.”  
     “Hannibal,” he hears from behind him, as if from behind a veil, and he turns slowly, vision pulsing with the brightness of the figure at his back before he can even fully look. As soon as he catches a glimpse he is startled out of the moment.  
     _I’m not going to miss you._  
     Will rejected him, after he’d saved them from Muskrat farm and gotten them safely to Will’s house in Wolftrap. He hadn’t thought his heart could break like that. Hannibal steps outside, unable to speak for the lump forming in his throat. He stands there on the porch a moment, letting Will’s words sink in.  
     _I’m not going to miss you._  
     Tears blur his eyes as he starts to walk out into the snow. He already wishes he could turn back, stay.  
     _I don’t want to think about you anymore._  
     He can’t imagine what he should do as a free man without Will. It all seems so much less exciting without him.  
     _I don’t have your appetite._  
     He had walked quite a distance from the house, just numbly moving his body forward. Hannibal turns to look behind him now—he sees the ship on the ocean that Will had described. In the dim, sickly green light of the dying sunset, Will’s house glows warmly in the distance, like a hearth he feels an urge to tend.  
     He starts back. He hadn’t been going anywhere particular anyway, and he is just as unsure now. It isn’t until he sees the flashing lights in the distance that he realizes where he has to go, where he wants to go. If it wasn’t for Will he could have walked away. If it wasn’t for Will he never would have been discovered in the first place. He could have been free. But would he have ever been satisfied?  
   As he kneels in the snow, Jack handcuffing him, he looks at Will. “I want you to know exactly where I am.” Will stares back, impassive with glowing eyes and a crown of fire, fingers blackened and stretched into draconic talons with dark feathers up his arms. Will wears the blood and scars like battle paint, like the wounds of Christ resurrected—stronger for their presence, a sacrifice to a greater purpose. He definitely has Hannibal’s appetite, at least in some sense.  
     “Hannibal.”  
     He startles awake, forces himself up. Will’s voice was distorted, garbled. The jolt of waking was almost like being saved an inch from death. He worries somehow he almost succumbed, though he has recovered enough that death should not be an immediate fear. Yet the fact his survival is now amongst his concerns is startling—up until this point in their escape he had mainly focused on Will’s survival. Through years of murder and manipulation, he hadn’t ever really feared for his life. He had willingly handed himself over to the FBI, knowing full well a death sentence could be on the table, but now the thought of dying in his sleep scares him more than he wants to admit. He had fought Jack, Tobias, the Dragon, and countless others in bloody combat to death without undue stress, but now he was scared. He didn’t want to die alone—Will would waste away, comatose, and Hannibal would never know what was going through his mind when Will pushed them off the cliff and took the impact of the fall.  
     He tries to steady himself as he sits on the edge of the bed. He closes his eyes, trying to step into his mind palace, and wades once again into Will's stream. This time Will is just barely out of reach—if Hannibal took one step forward he could put a hand on his shoulder. He stands there admiring the practiced movement of Will's cast and the slow drag of his line through the water. He always looks so lovely here, so unworried. As Hannibal moves to reach for Will he looks down and the water seems to be pulling away. A shadow falls over him from behind. He turns and sees a giant, dark wave behind him, ready to engulf them. He turns back to warn Will, but loses the moment before he can open his mouth.  
     He feels like he is losing control. Will is lying in bed, still oblivious. Hannibal's side still aches. 

xxx 

     He cleans his wound and replaces the dressings again—now that he is in his own safe house he has access to his preferred supplies once more, and the process goes smoothly.  
     But when it comes to Will, Hannibal is more cautious. Despite having to care for Will the past week and being around him constantly, Hannibal has not allowed himself to really be present in those moments, hiding behind a clinical detachment. Here, he can't avoid the intimacy. Leaning over Will’s shoulder, Hannibal avoids his face, looking solely at the wounds and stitching before him.  
     As he snips each tiny thread he watches for signs of waking. By the time he has pulled each tiny knot free and Will hasn't moved, Hannibal has relaxed somewhat in his proximity. He puts his hand on Will's cheek to feel the texture of the forming scar, deciding it would be best to shave the stubble away and leave a clean area for healing. He retrieves his shaving kit.  
     He holds the razor a few inches above Will’s face for some time—strange how after looking at him for so long over the past week, performing his routine ministrations, the act of shaving his face could bring Hannibal so close to breaking. His heart was beating much too quickly, his fingers were tingling strangely and his lips were dry. He makes a mental note that he is likely dehydrated, he’s not been keeping up with his fluids after their fall, and in his mind he sees himself flee, dropping the razor to go get a drink of water—or perhaps something stiffer. In reality he stays sitting still, hovering before making the first mark. With a gentle swipe, he shaves a clean patch on Will’s uninjured cheek, to test his hand. Steady enough; his fingers still feel faulty but his accuracy hasn't changed. He shaves carefully, minding the scar, and keeps a gentle hand so as not to reopen the injury. When he's finished he puts some ointment on the healing cut; it would be a shame if he let it get infected now. Sitting back in his chair he surveys his handiwork, and finds himself saddened by the version of Will he sees.  
     He looks younger, more peaceful, and somehow not himself. It was like he had been prepared by an unfamiliar hand, by a mortician for his funeral. The ventilator and other equipment distort him further, and Hannibal can see that the past three years apart had changed him.  
     Maybe it is the coma's doing, but Will looks softer. Years away from the job that haunted him—and years away from Hannibal—perhaps had given him new life. The ring on his finger is a dark and constant reminder that Will had, indeed, found something else to do with himself. Hannibal can not know what his life is like now.  
     The Will in front of Hannibal now is neither the perfect, unknowing, unscarred Will Hannibal remembered nor the bloodied, dripping dream that had haunted him for the past week. This Will was some other creature, an unknown cocoon—writhing and shifting inside where no one could see.  
     Looking at Will clean shaven, scarred, unconscious, Hannibal feels a wave of frustration, sadness, and immense responsibility come over him—tears start pricking at his eyes. Over the past few days he had seen no indication that Will would be waking up soon. With insufficient monitoring equipment he had been unable to see any indication of anything, really. He just administered the sedative and hoped Will's brain was mending itself. He hadn't tried to speak to him yet, and hadn't had the urge to, but he feels the need to say something now. He just can't form any words.  
     Instead, tears begin to fall in earnest as he simply sits to wait beside the only person living he cares for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic-writing thing is really, really slow going when it comes down to getting it how you want to be, sheesh. 
> 
> Still, its only been... *checks watchless wrist* ...six months? nearly a year since I updated this? Wow. I am so sorry to anyone who was waiting. I can't promise when the next update will be, but I want it to be soon. I am graduating from college in a few months, though, so it might be a while. Hannibal always has all of my thoughts, but not all of my effort.


End file.
